


what we could've been, time will never tell

by wtfoctagon



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, and what it meant that yda had to raise lyse on her own, diasporic feelings, late stormblood spoilers, remembering yda, short series of stories about the hext sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfoctagon/pseuds/wtfoctagon
Summary: And what does it mean to try and claim a heritage, when you're so far removed from your Motherland and your Mother, when the only mother you've ever known is gone? When all you've managed to inherit is a dress and the heaviness of tradition that slips from your grasp like air? What is Motherhood to you, a daughter who has only ever known longing and never enough belonging?
Relationships: Lyse Hext & Yda Hext
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from Grandmother Song by Vienna Teng, the ultimate "complicated feelings about wanting to be the daughter your immigrant female relatives want you to be because they never had the chances that you get to have now" song

It fits perfectly. 

Lyse smooths down the silken fabric hanging over her thighs, staring through the mirror at the snug fit of the straps around her abdomen. It fits perfectly, now, when it used to be too big around her— her everywhere, really, hanging off her body in ridiculous droops that made it look more like a set of slashed up drapes than a dress—

_ She hugs herself, trying to keep the dress from sliding off as she waits for the raucous laughter. Of all the times for Yda to come home unexpectedly early, it just had to be tonight, didn’t it?  _

_ “Lyse…” _

_ She scowls as she looks up, because Yda is probably clutching her mouth trying not to laugh it off her face— except, she’s not. She’s just standing there, in the doorway, arms slack at her sides.  _

_ Oh, no. Is she angry? Bugger— Lyse was being careful, she wouldn’t have— _

_ “Going through my wardrobe now, are we?” Yda smiles and crosses her arms, stepping into the room. “We have  _ got  _ to get you a new hobby.” _

_ “I wasn’t— I just wanted to—” Lyse groans. “Can you just help me get this off?” _

_ Yda laughs at that, finally, shaking her head. “Alright, alright— here, move your hands,” she says, coaxing the clasp at the back of her neck from her hands. Lyse lets her head and hands hang petulantly as Yda undoes the clasp, then the next one, then the next one, then a set of laces— _

_ “Why’s it so complicated, anyhow?” she grumbles.  _

_ She hears Yda chuckle behind her. “It’s a dress, kiddo. They’re always complicated.” A click, then the dress finally cascades off her like water— Yda catches it, gently gathering it up when Lyse steps out of it and dives for her shirt.  _

_ “Tha’s stupid,” Lyse mumbles through her shirt as she pulls it over her head. “What’s the point?” _

_ “Who knows,” Yda says, absently— when Lyse finally emerges from her shirt, she sees her folding up the dress so carefully, so  _ lovingly.  _ As if it would crumble in her hands if she so much as touched it wrong. _

_ “Did I ever tell you,” she starts, opening her armoire to tuck the dress away, “that this was the last thing mother ever wove?”  _

_ There’s something uncharacteristically distant about the way Yda says that— like she’s not really talking  _ to  _ Lyse, but talking  _ at  _ her. _

_ “Yeah.” Lyse hugs herself, tucking her chin to her chest. “It was for your sixteenth nameday, right?” _

_ Yda nods, gently closing the armoire. “It was too big on me then, too,” she chuckles, turning around to lean against the wooden doors. “Gods know how she knew how much I’d grow, but she made it for me to have and wear for the rest of my life. Because she knew she wouldn’t be around to make me a new one.” _

_ Lyse is too scared to look Yda in the eyes, because this— this is something she can’t shoulder with her. They remember their father together. They remember their home together. But when Lyse thinks of a mother, all she can picture is Yda— Yda, tucking her into bed at night. Yda, thanking her for the extra firewood as she stokes the fire under her special stew. Yda, laughing as she dumps a cold bucket of water into her bath because it’ll “wake her up” for the day.  _

_ “An old-fashioned woman to the very end,” Yda sighs whimsically, waving her hand. “Said every good Ala Mhigan girl should have at least one  _ entari  _ dress to wear.”  _

_ Well, Lyse doesn’t have one, so what does that make her? _

_ She clamps down on the suddenly vicious thought.  _

_ “When you’re older,” Yda says, tilting her chin up so they could look each other in the eyes. “We’ll get it fitted to you, and you can have it, yeah?” _

_ Lyse frowns. “But it’s yours.” _

_ “Mhm. So it’s up to me to do whatever I want with it, including giving it away,” she says, smiling as she lightly pokes Lyse in the forehead. “Besides, by the time you’re done growing, I’ll probably be too saggy to wear it anyhow.” _

_ “Ew—” Lyse slaps Yda’s arm, wrinkling her nose. “Do you have to say it like that?” _

_ Yda just laughs. “It’s a sad eventuality for every woman, my dearest sister,” she says, ruffling Lyse’s hair. “C’mon, now. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.” _

The next week, Yda bought her the Ala Mhigan gown she still wears to sleep, because she was Yda and she figured out that Lyse had tried the dress because she wanted some way to wear the place she called  _ home. _

For naught, in the end. Lyse never did have the courage to wear it out amongst the snobby Sharlayan kids who turned their nose up at the sight of her— not like Yda did. Not like Yda, who wore the dress whenever she could, who did not suffer any Sharlayan looking down on her or patronizing her “quaintness.” Not like Yda, who wore it like a flag— proud. Indomitable. The very picture of a dignified Ala Mhigan woman.

(The woman that their mother had wanted Yda to be. The woman she’s not sure she sees in the mirror now.)

They never did get it fitted, in the end— and yet, it fits perfectly. There’s something ironic about it, though Lyse isn’t lyrical enough to put it to proper words: for years, she wore Yda’s name like an ill-fitting costume, and now… this.

Yda would have made fun of her. She would have fussed even as she pretended not to, making playful comments as she readjusted every strap and carefully pinned on the finishing touches. She would have fiddled with her jewelry and helped her put her hair in the stupidly finicky gold band because their mother wasn’t there to do it for her and now Lyse doesn’t get to have  _ either _ of them, just this one dress— 

(It’s just so heavy. The dress, the way their mother had woven it for Yda just to make sure she had one to wear, the way Yda planned to give it to her because she had no mother to weave her a new one. The way this tradition was forged by thousands of women before her, all of them adding their voices to the same name, the same creed: Ala Mhigo.

She wonders if it was this heavy for Yda too.) 

Deep breath. In. Out. She lets go of the fabric she’d clenched her fists in and smooths it out, hoping she hasn’t wrinkled it. Okay. She’s okay. She can do this. She can wear this dress— this last piece of Ala Mhigo that Yda fought to keep alive, this last piece of Yda that Lyse has left— and retake everything she had only ever remembered in hazy childhood memories. For Yda. For her father. For every soul that dreams of coming home. 

Liberty, or death. Lyse puts her hand over the crystal hanging just above her navel.

“I miss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really just putting my wholeass immigrant trauma out there but!! hello this is my first ffxiv fic and i hope to write more bc i love this community please let me in


	2. if this is how we fall apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Yda is angry. At the world, at the empire, at her parents, and at Lyse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "Here Comes A Thought" by Rebecca Sugar 
> 
> Lyse's image of Yda seems so indomitable, but it must have been hard being the only mother your baby sister has ever known.

Sometimes, Yda is angry.

She knows she has no reason to be: she sits in the kitchen of their small apartment in Sharlayan, afforded not only a roof over her head but relative peace and privacy. Her little sister is sleeping in her own room, warm and well-fed and safe. She’s wrapping up the last few pages of her thesis, herself, ready to graduate her sophomore program in a few weeks. 

She’s done well for herself and Lyse, just as her parents asked. Funny that their last words to her echo each other. 

‘Take care of your father and sister,’ her mother said, hours before the sickness finally laid her to rest. ‘Look after Lyse,’ her father said, moments before he pushed them into the boat, and she crushed Lyse to her chest to cover her ears and eyes as they drifted away from the sound of gunshots. 

_ Take care of your sister. Look after Lyse. _ When has she not? When had she ever shirked the responsibility that fell on her shoulders as her childhood withered away on her mother’s sickbed? 

The chronometer on the desk chirps quietly, announcing the last bell of the day. Midnight. Already. _ Perfect. _ She sighs and buries her head in her books. 

Happy nameday, Yda Hext.

Well, whatever. She pushes herself out of her chair, closing her books over on her loose pieces of parchment. Her thesis can wait. Papalymo won’t mind if it’s a little late— and if he does, then, well. That’s a problem for tomorrow’s Yda.

Blowing out the candle, stacking her books in a pile, she makes a beeline for her bed— or, at least, that’s her plan until she sees something scattered all over Lyse’s floor through the small crack of her door. 

Messy kid. Can’t put things away or keep things neat to save her own life— once she’s done with something, she just leaves it wherever it is and moves onto whatever’s caught her attention next. Her floor’s always littered with something, no matter how many times she’s asked to put things away. Yda sighs and quietly pushes her way into the smaller bedroom, trying not to click her tongue in annoyance. When will she learn? Yda doesn’t have time to pick up after her forever— she’s almost tempted to leave it be and let Lyse trip over it in the morning. 

‘It’ ends up being a half-done embroidering set which is… strange, because Lyse  _ hates  _ sewing and needles and anything to do with that. Yda had tried to teach her the basics, once— because knowing how to fix your own shirt goes a long way— but once she’d grasped how to mend a hole or a tear, that was it. She’d never pick up something like embroidering of her own volition, so why’s this here?

She squints in the dark at the unfinished design: it’s… not pretty, which is just about what she expected. Clumsy, oddly shaped, mostly because the frame was too big for the small strip of cloth. Yda looks down at the small piece of parchment lying by the box of thread. Was she trying to embroider a griffin? On to a strip of what looks like fancy bandages? 

Then she remembers mentioning that she needs a new set of handwraps a few weeks ago, and, oh,  _ godsdammit.  _ Of course she’d remember that, of all things. Silly girl. Handwraps are meant to get worn and messy— there’s no point embroidering them like some fancy handkerchief. But trying to make a set of  _ something  _ useful with griffins on them as a nameday present is just so…  _ Lyse. _

Yda sighs and piles the kit as neatly into the thread box as possible before setting it aside— she’ll ask Lyse about it tomorrow. Where she even got the idea or the pattern from, gods know. Pushing herself upright, she quietly pads over to gently sit on the edge of Lyse’s bed, moving ever so slowly.

She reaches over to push some hair out of Lyse’s face, her smile falling when she sees the puffy red eyes and dried tears tracking down her cheeks. Lyse snuffles quietly in her sleep, rubbing weakly at her face with bandaged hands, and— 

Oh,  _ Lyse.  _

Yda can picture it perfectly— Lyse, wiping away angry and frustrated tears as the embroidering just doesn’t go  _ right  _ and the way that she wanted it to look, becoming more and more distraught with every prick of her fingers until the disappointment got to be too much. Yda’s seen it many times before, when Lyse puts her heart into something and it just ends up breaking on her. Many times she’s tried to soothe an inconsolably frustrated Lyse who was overcome with feelings of uselessness. 

This time, she didn’t have Yda— she didn’t even ask for her. She cried herself to sleep over trying to make a present for her, even though she said she didn’t need anything, because  _ of course  _ she would, the stubborn girl— stubborn, bright girl, too kind and caring for her own good. 

(Just like their mother had been. They’re so alike, in so many ways she’ll never know— a little quiet, a little melancholy, but brighter than the sun itself when she does smile and laugh. 

Mother would have loved to watch her grow up. Lyse would have loved her so much.)

Don’t cry, Yda tells herself, craning her face up at the ceiling. Rhalgr’s bloody  _ fucking _ ballsack, don’t cry, not now— she takes a deep breath and exhales it in a silent chuckle, tucking her chin to her chest as she wipes her eyes.

It’s just so much, all of it— so sad, so stupid, so unfair. What could they have been, if she hadn’t had to be the only mother Lyse would ever know? Would she have been better at being there for her, if she wasn’t so busy worrying about keeping a roof over her head and food on the table— if she didn’t have all this  _ anger  _ inside of her always, towards the world, towards the empire, towards her parents, towards  _ Lyse? _

Lyse, who has done nothing to deserve it. Lyse, who always tries so, so hard. 

She leans down and presses a kiss to the side of Lyse’s head to soothe the swelling in her heart that wants her to hold her sister as tight as she can and never let go. It’ll be a nightmare if she wakes her now— Lyse always has such trouble falling back asleep if she’s woken before morning. Instead, she gently pats down some of Lyse’s hair, careful not to make her stir. 

_ Every moment that you’re still breathing is a gift to me, _ she thinks to herself, afraid to even whisper it aloud.  _ Please, just be happy, okay? You’re all I’ve got left. _

It’s another few moments before she musters the strength to pull herself away, gently closing the door behind herself. 


End file.
